


Background Characters

by Carnwennan



Category: RWBY
Genre: Action, Alcohol, Background events, Canon-Adjacent (V3/V4), Crimes & Criminals, Dark Comedy, Detectives, During Canon, Explicit Language, Gen, Intrigue, Lesser Characters, Moral Ambiguity, Multiple Protagonists, Organized Crime, The poor bastards that put up with living in a superhuman society
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 14:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18966823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carnwennan/pseuds/Carnwennan
Summary: The looms of time are ever busy for the world of Remnant. Great heroes rise to defy the will of ruthless tyrants, eldritch monstrosities born of hatred and malice stalk the lands, nations rise and fall- With them crashing the ever-heating waves of both Man and Faunus, threatening to boil over into rebellion and war. The air is filled with the winds of magic, as well as the burning smoke and steam of technology, both consuming life and bastardizing it through eerie automata- All competes to become the very centre of the world's stage, vying for supremacy in the records and legends recounted across Remnant.But what of the rest of the world, the one that lives in the shadow of the greats?What of life without the ideals of Hunters and Huntresses?See- That's the fancy way of asking that question.Truth is- Life can be pretty shitty.Because it ain't just filled with people that can shoot lightning and punch out a tank, it's filled with folks like you and me, who can be injured by a particularly aggressive can of tomato sauce. It's filled with regular-ass people, and we've all got our own shit to deal with.However- Nobody said that can't make for a good story.





	Background Characters

"And ultimately- It's up to the individual to discern right from wrong. Every choice, every piece of wisdom from their parents and broader family, every lesson learned from friends and society as a whole, will only have a light bearing on someone's true moral compass. Regardless of who you are- One day, you'll have to make a decision you won't be able to run away from or alter im your favour, try as you may. One that'll change the way the world works for as long that you live.  
And the terrifying thing, is that they'll be nobody else to make that choice for you."  
The barkeep slowly nodded. "Alright, but I'll tell you now that paying for your drink shouldn't be too hard of a decision."  
Opal laughed as he leaned into the creaking leather barstool, the peeling black fabric complaining under the weight of its occupant. "It's okay- My pockets are as full of credits as they are wisdom."  
"I see. Probably shouldn't get much more to drink, then."  
The bar was a cozy, if not slightly haggard-looking place. Faunus' Retreat, as it was called, seldom saw many customers being so tucked away between cheap apartment blocks, full of residents that go to more respectable drinking establishments. The motif here was unmistakably 'old'- Rotary ceiling fans instead of Dust AC, scratched wooden walls, years-old posters and a sad-looking dart board the hard proof of the original owner's grand vision during a time where probably half the world probably couldn't vote yet. The newest thing in the room was a TV mounted to the wall, presumably only there so that the barkeep wouldn't go insane from remaining here for hours on end. It was currently muttering today's news, which showed very interesting graphs about very interesting stock prices, the light reflecting off of the polished countertop Opal leaned on.  
"That's a quote from Blanche Wix' book by the way, in case you were wondering."  
"Uh-huh." She really wasn't.  
"I wish I was that pretentious, instead I have to keep ahead of the curve by reading whoever's the most stuck up their own ass at the time. It's a good way to avoid getting a hobby."  
The barkeep continued to polish a never-ending stock of glasses with a rag. "I'll keep that in mind next time I'm about to accidentally impress someone."  
The man in the sand-coloured trench coat shifted in his seat again. "Well, it's either that or a thrilling round of darts, so the choice is yours."  
She glanced at the board for a moment, almost like she would a bug she just noticed. "Touché."

Opal idly stared at his half-full glass for a moment before he picked it up, a warped reflection of himself on the surface of something that would technically be considered alcohol, but was so alien in taste that he'd dare not ask what it really was. The barkeep might even struggle to come up with an answer, most probably. The murky brown liquid mirrored his appearance of what could only be described as shockingly plain; whilst most folks running around Remnant seem to be blessed by a charitable god of genetics and skincare products, (The ones on the news, at least) Opal worked with what he had. Short brown hair, nondescript brown eyes, uniform brown stubble- He even had a pair of pants to go with this daring palette. Average height, average build- He had it all in terms of being entirely unremarkable except for his strange fashion sense, which included a pair of worn dress shoes (Of a colour that, at a push, you could probably guess) and an even more haggard-looking coat, like that of an old-timey detective.  
Luckily enough- That suited him rather accurately.

Ever since the attack on Beacon Academy several months ago, the whole damn continent was thrown into disarray. But not just in the sense that both Grimm and large military bodies were starting to stir and shuffle around the map- The center stage would of course be taken by Hunters and Huntresses, the White Fang, Atlas and just about anything important enough to have a capitalized first letter. But down at ground level, where people like Opal as well as the rest of society did their business, there were plenty of issues that cropped up on the regular.  
Life went on, all the same- Businesses kept the money flowing and citizens felt at least vaguely safe, but that wasn't to say it was all peachy. The deaths and injuries of an already limited supply of law enforcement and peacekeepers both within and outside the Academy meant that whatever was left in Vale was stretched concerningly thin- Coupled with the disappearance of a few of the bigger names within the criminal underworld, it meant a proverbial pot of Dust for once petty criminals now trying to strong-arm their way to the top.  
That's where Opal came in. Not to single-handedly quell the tide of a nefarious criminal uprising, gods no- He was nearing his 40s and was somewhat light in volume of intensive combat training or state-of-the-art weaponry. What he did have, however, was plenty of experience as a private investigator.

A couple of weeks ago, an envoy from the Atlas military- Some sort of technician or scientist, he couldn't remember- Got in touch with him to request his services. And although fairly competent in his vocation, Opal wasn't exactly making waves in the world of criminal investigation, which is why it surprised the shit out of him to hear that he was being asked to track down and recover a lost set of bleeding-edge Atlas weaponry blueprints.  
Maria Argent, as was called the envoy, explained that an apparent mole within the Atlas R&D team used the lapse in cohesiveness and communication that the attack on Beacon presented as the perfect distraction to slip through the net with some vital research projects, disappearing from sight. Obviously, Atlas had no intention of having neither the research nor the security blunder reach the public, so a silent crackdown and investigation took place to further spread the nation's resources thin. And although they were successful in apprehending the escapee, a couple of vital documents were still unaccounted for- Thus out of what seemed like desperation, civilian help was contracted.  
Of course- Maria only told Opal a solid tenth of this information, the rest he had maniaged to dig up himself in an effort to find some leads. But all he needed to know was that although the prim, white-uniformed and utterly glacial envoy seemed perpetually disgusted with him, she was offering a very, very handsome bounty for the blueprints. And Opal wasn't exactly a political man to begin with.

As he continued to drum his fingers in thought, he finished off his drink in mild disappointment. He had hoped to find some sort of lead in the Faunus' Retreat, as bars typically just, well… Had them. This was something that no detective or drifter could really explain, but it was very much a proven thing that if you walked into a bar, chances are there's somehow something there that would point in you in the right direction. You get so used to it that it's almost weird to think that you can order a drink, and just nothing happens. This clearly was an indication of the truly extraordinary difficulty and nature of this case, Opal thought.  
He paid his tab and sat up from the creaking stool, pocketing his hands in preparation for the chill outside. "Don't suppose you've had any suspicious characters in here lately?" He asked the barkeep as a final shot in the dark.  
She simply shot him a tired look. "This is Basalt. Everyone here is suspicious."  
Opal hesitated for a moment. "Fair point." He made his way towards the door with little hurry. "Have a good night."  
"You too." She said in response, happily stowing the one glass she had been polishing for the past 10 minutes to grab her Scroll.  
Guess I'll have to twist some arms. Opal thought, weaving his way between the nighttime crowd in search of bright lights and alcohol. Shouldn't be too hard to find someone that wants to kick Atlas in the balls, a bit. The moon overhead mingled with hazy lamplight as Opal disappeared into the twisting alleyways.

 

Elsewhere, not too far away, a different figure sat with a half-empty glass on the table in front of them, preparing to deliver something thought-provoking to the person he was talking to-

"Fuck off." Said Yttri, not diverting his attention from the ledger in front of him as he continued to scribble notes.  
The young man in front of him shuffled from side to side. "Sir- I know that recently there have been some ah, incidents with da company, but Don Galena can promise that we'd be a vital asset to your enterprises!" He said, with confidence as solid as a stiff breeze.  
This time Yttri looked up, eyebrow raised. "Since when exactly did he become a 'Don'? What- Did he decide to promote himself after bravely having his warehouses firebombed?" He said, staring at his own irked expression reflected on the goon's extremely cheap sunglasses.  
After receiving the response of a nervous swallow and a look towards a remarkably interesting floor tile, Yttri sighed. "Never mind. Just tell The Grand Admiral or whatever accolade he'll adopt by the time you get back that I have no interest in gaining a bleeding financial wound. The only reason he's approaching me is, most likely, because the profits are looking about as sturdy as the threads on your knockoff suit." The man before him, although comically shocked, remained silent. "And at no point, is the promise of 'A solid hoe scene', ever going to appeal to my business sense. So if you would kindly follow my initial suggestion-" He stared at the goon hard, awaiting a response.  
The man of the hour could not look any less comfortable, sweat gliding down his forehead. "...Fuck off?" He tried, like a timid child answering a teacher when they had only been thinking about ninjas for the past twenty minutes instead of the class content.  
Yttri broke into a big grin, eyes like daggers. "Very good!" He could not have poured more venom into his words if he had tried. Keeping the smile strong, he gestured towards the door with his head, watching the movie-extra mobster shuffle away from Yttri's desk and out of the white-on-grey office through the door, closing it as gently as he could manage.  
Ytrri dropped the expression the nanosecond the door clicked, realising that even fake-smiling caused strain on the highly unused muscles. "Woe are the lawbringers of the lands, pitted against the sharpest and deadliest criminals dredged from the rotted soil." He muttered, taking a deep drink of the whiskey.

Ytrri's workspace, although utilitarian, was proudly modern in appearance. The walls and ceiling were a friendly, hospital stark-white, the tiles a clean silver that reflected the gleam from an array of attractive hanging lights, matching the colour scheme of the furniture, which all seemed to possess an alarming amount of curvature to them, enslaved to the beck and call of contemporary interior design.  
Ahead of Yttri Gadolin was an equally nouveau standing mirror, with a fractal, flower petal design at its very top that on further thought, was completely useless in accomplishing the function of actually reflecting objects in front of it, obscured by lines and gaps between segments of glass, sacrificed in the name of pretentious artistry.  
He focused back on the reflection of the slouched, annoyed young (ish) man, sleep-deprived eyes glancing up to make sure his slicked-back, black hair was all in order. Not that he had to worry about looking any better than The Oddfather that just left, anyway. He put down his drink, turning his head and running a hand across his neck and cheek to feel for any stubble. Smoother than an Atlesian Knight's junk, he was content to find, standing up to give his legs a stretch, brushing lint off of his smart, black pants, which annoyingly landed on his equally dark shoes, shaking it off and making a mental note to reschedule the cleaner. It was at times like this where he felt least like a calculating criminal.  
He picked up the ledger once more, pacing around the room as he continued to take stock of various names his recruiter had jotted down, Don Galena hazily in the back of his mind.  
It's almost sad that I agreed to get in contact with the 'underworld enterprise' that was once a nightclub. He thought to himself as he crossed out a few more individuals with a pen. They're somehow even less impressive now than they were back when their old boss was in charge- Juniper, or something. Yttri had adamantly been trying to keep the ambition of expansion on his mind for the past few weeks, although the disappointingly stagnant pool of criminals and cartels he waded through every day was demoralising, to say the very least. He had found a couple of potential assets, but for the most part, he was finding garbage in the rough, which almost surprised him with how advantageous the current climate was for souls of his vocation.

After the shitshow at Beacon, things were looking great. Law enforcement took a bigger bullet than what the Atlas mechs could ever dream of packing, and the Saturday morning cartoon villain Roman Torchwick disappeared from the face of Remnant, along with a few more highly abrasive key players in the underworld through military crackdown and opportune backstabs. The White Fang had gutted itself as well, many of the spookier cells dismantling and easing up trade between Humie and Faunus syndicates. Ironically enough.  
But Yttri was by no means a big fish, he kept his head low and made his gains in credit laundering over the years, slowly building up enough resources to keep a hand on the proverbial dagger hilt if he ever needed to make a move, but now was most definitely the time. He recognizes his position in the world- But he'll be damned if he doesn't try to build a kingdom on the still-fresh corpses of his competition. Take out a few words, add in a few more, you've essentially got Atlus' agenda anyway, so his conscience was squeaky-clean by his reasoning. 

And now, he finds himself only a few steps away from getting the ball rolling. His eyebrows raised in interest as he read a profile that sounded very much like something he'd like in his sphere of influence. He circled the name and padded over to his desk, grabbing his Scroll and dialing a contact without even looking at the screen. "Ivan? I may need you to make a few calls-" He said, nodding to himself as he ran a few calculations in his head, happy with the produced results. "We may have just found the catalyst for our weapon smuggling aspirations."


End file.
